Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. I forgot to share Week Seven (thanks, MS brain), so this post is a two-for-one. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them by clicking here.
Day Forty-Three (June 8th) “No need to cry; I’m right here by your side,” I said to my cat as she whined by the door. “Meow,” she replied. Day Forty-Four (June 9th) Stuck like fruit flies on yellow paper, wings twitching, itching to be free Day Forty-Five (June 10th) The sun on my skin sings like an echo reverberating through a canyon. Trust in that spaciousness, that embodiment of life outside the body. Day Forty-Six (June 11th) Ask for help. Ask for change. Let yourself be vulnerable to the gifts of others. Day Forty-Seven (June 12th) Our cells are constantly replacing themselves. We are never the same person two days in a row. Remember your body just as you remember your mind. The tide comes in and goes out, changing the beach like cells turning over. Pruned fingers never last too long. Day Forty-Eight (June 13th) This is more difficult than I imagined, coming up with something creative every day. Even this simple task feels insurmountable at times. I am not always creative. I think that’s the point. None of us is any one thing all the time. Day Forty-Nine (June 14th) Goldfish in glass bowls make me irrationally angry. Although is it really irrational to want a life of joy for even the smallest of creatures? Day Fifty (June 15th) As stress dissolves, lips become buoyant with the lightness of joy Day Fifty-One (June 16th) Sometimes I like to light a candle and meditate on the flame. Fire has a depth to it than can only be understood when you lose yourself in it. Day Fifty-Two (June 17th) Summer lazes its way into the night with the illuminated grumbling of thunder and lightning as a soft storm passes through Day Fifty-Three (June 18th) A rusty millipede has joined the dead earthworms on my porch. Its brick-red body matches the actual bricks of the front of my house. The tiles it lies on are like red clay in the summer heat. I consider bringing it a shallow dish of water, but it’s already curled into its death spiral. Prolonging the inevitable would be cruel. When I go back outside a few hours later, the millipede is dead. It’s thicker than the worms around it, king of the dead things. I’ll sweep them away later, but more will take their place soon enough. Day Fifty-Four (June 19th) Eyelids heavy, sight blurred like the bright edges of the moon as it blends with the deep dark of the midnight sky, a night walk to calm the mind Day Fifty-Five (June 20th) I’ve been seeing a lot of ducks recently. They’re in my neighborhood and near my pharmacy. They showed up outside the office where my mom receives plasma injections twice a week. They’re in my dreams. Part of me wonders what symbolism ducks carry with them. Another part of me just enjoys the small moments we share. Day Fifty-Six (June 21st) The hour is later than anticipated, and the sky remains darker than the morning expects. Life bubbles beneath the dullness, overflowing from pregnant clouds, infusing the lack of color with feelings only found in shades of grey.
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